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Brogan

Nobody makes it easy on you here. Not the ice. Not the people. Not the goddamn sky that spits snow sideways until your face feels like ground beef. We don’t hand out gold stars for showing up. You earn your place. You earn your shot. And God help you if you don’t deliver—because we don’t whisper about failure in here. We drag it out to the middle of Main Street, hang it on the damn water tower, and watch you squirm until you figure it out or pack your bags. That’s the thing about me. I’m stubborn as hell. I don’t give up on my people… but I won’t let you lie to yourself, either. You wanna wear the name on the back? You better fight for the name on the front. And right now, Brogan Foster’s got everybody holding their breath—including me.

Playlist: “Harder to Breathe” by Maroon 5

I hit the ice, ready to shake off this damn slump—and promptly lose the puck on my first pass. It clanks off the boards like a cannon blast aimed straight at my ego.

“Nice hands, little brother!” Bennett chirps from the other end, not even looking up.

Around me, the guys are locked in, sticks clattering, skates digging deep like we’re already mid-game instead of warming up. Miner’s Memorial Arena feels more like a battlefield than a hockey rink today.

The puck ricochets off the post with a clang that sounds a little too much like ‘You’re done here, Foster.’

I grit my teeth and loop back around, trying to shake off the nerves tightening around my ribs like a cheap pair of compression shorts. This isn’t new. I’ve been in slumps before. But this one… this one feels like it’s settling in, building a damn Airbnb in my head with a “No Check-Out” policy.

Coach Duff shouts something I don’t quite catch, but the crack of his clipboard against the boards fills in the blanks just fine.

I glance toward the bench where my grumpy, elder brother’s leaning on his stick, chin tucked down, watching me like I’m the last goddamn joke in the world and he’s already heard the punchline.

Shep’s grin twitches as he holds back some smartass comment, but even he knows better than to poke the bear when the bear’s already skating on thin ice.

And just like that, my stick snaps in two on my next slapshot.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I try to shake off the nerves and focus, but there’s a heaviness in my legs that feels like I’m skating through mud. I need to step it up—no more excuses.

Water break hits, and while everyone’s gulping down their drinks, trying to shake off the intensity, I decide it’s time for a little Brogan-brand magic. I mean, if you can’t laugh at a morning practice that feels more like a death march, when can you laugh, right?

“Alright, listen up!” I yell, clapping my hands for attention. The guys turn, eyebrows up, expecting either profound wisdom or... well, me. “I’ve got a new pep rap for you, fresh from the Foster lyrical genius vault!” I announce, and groans ripple through the group, mixed with a couple of chuckles. Even Coach Duff pauses, his expression screaming ‘this better be good.’

I clear my throat, launch into my rap with a beat I clap out on my pads, “We’re the Slammers who slam, we crash and we bang, on the ice, we bring fire, opponents—feel our ire!”

Holden covers his face with a glove, but he’s laughing—I think. Heath shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips as he throws a towel at me. Shep, bless him, actually attempts to beatbox, adding a surreal soundtrack to my questionable rhymes.

“We skate, we score, we always want more, from the first period light to the last buzzer’s bite!”

Coach Duff’s face morphs slowly from mild amusement to disbelief, especially as I finish with a dramatic mic drop—minus the mic. The team erupts into a mix of laughter and applause, the tension momentarily forgotten. But just as I’m soaking in the adoration, Coach Duff calls out, sharp and clear, cutting through the noise, “Foster 3! Real cute. Now let’s get serious, or you’ll be rapping from the bench tonight!”

With a sheepish grin, I nod, picking up my fresh stick, ready for the drills that I know are about to double in intensity.

Determined to wipe the smirk off Coach Duff’s face and prove that I can do more than just spit bars, I throw myself into the next drill with everything I’ve got. It’s a brutal puck control exercise, and I’m hell-bent on showing I can handle it.

I dart across the ice, puck at my stick, weaving through cones with a focus I didn’t know I had this morning. Around me, the sharp hiss of skates cuts through the arena’s cold air, a symphony of effort from the team. Holden’s giving me a thumbs up, and even Wolfe, Mr. Silent-but-Deadly, nods in approval. It feels good, really good—until it doesn’t.

In my overzealous dash to impress, my skate catches an edge. Time slows. I feel my body tipping, but there’s nothing I can do. The puck slips away like it’s got a mind of its own, shooting across the ice straight towards—no, not towards...

The puck slams into Coach Duff’s coffee mug, an innocent bystander in my tragicomedy of errors. The mug doesn’t just fall; it explodes in a spray of coffee that drenches Coach’s pristine, definitely expensive, definitely not coffee-proof, wind suit.

Silence slams into the rink harder than I hit the ice. I scramble up, every pair of eyes on me—some wide, some squinting, all shocked. Coach Duff stands frozen, dark drips of coffee staining his front, a look of apocalypse on his face. This isn’t just a mistake; it’s an epic fail.

“Foster!” Coach Duff bellows, the arena ringing with his fury. “You want to play clown? Do it on your own time!” His voice, a mix of anger and disbelief, echoes off the walls, pinning me in place.

The entire team freezes, the humor of moments ago chilled into a frosty silence. I stand there, my stick feeling like a hundred pounds in my hands, heat crawling up my neck. It’s one thing to mess up privately. It’s another to do it under the blinding lights of Coach Duff’s wrath.

The guys shift uncomfortably, skates scraping muted apologies across the ice. Holden shoots me a sympathetic grimace, and even Bennett, normally the one to pile on, has his eyes narrowed, not in judgment but in commiseration. They’ve all been here. Maybe not in such a spectacular fashion, but they know the drill—pun intended.

Coach doesn’t let up. “We’re here to work not perform circus acts, Foster! Maybe that’s the problem—you think this jersey gets you a free pass just because it says Foster on the back. It doesn’t. You either earn it, or you lose it. If you can’t take this seriously, maybe you should consider a career change. Maybe clown school? Lord knows your music career is already over.” His voice booms across the rink, turning a few chuckles from the guys into coughs.

As drills resume, they’re twice as hard and half as forgiving. Each pass, each check, feels like a battle, and I’m right there, pushing through the mud in my skates, determined to pull my weight, to prove I’m more than just the team jester.

Practice ends with heavy breaths and tired limbs, but as we shuffle off the ice, the guys come around, tapping their sticks on the ground in a rhythmic salute. It’s a hockey player’s hug, rough but real. “Shake it off, Brogan,” Shep calls out, his grin back in place. “You’ll nail it next time.”

Their camaraderie doesn’t erase the sting of humiliation, but it reminds me why I still lace up—to be part of this team, this family. And as I head to the locker room, my resolve hardens. I’ll be ready for the next practice, the next game. No more spills, just thrills.

As I yank off my gear, the weight of the morning’s disaster still pressing down on me, my phone vibrates against the wooden bench. I swipe to answer, half-expecting another ribbing from one of the guys. Instead, it’s Pru’s no-nonsense tone that greets me. “Brogan, get yourself up to the front office. Franklin wants a word.”

A word.

That phrase hits harder than any slapshot to the ribs.

I scrub a hand down my sweaty face and let out a breath that doesn’t do a damn thing to settle my stomach. My pulse’s already doing suicide sprints, imagining every worst-case scenario—from being benched to being shipped off to God-knows-where in the middle of the season.

I don’t move right away. Just sit there, staring at my skates like they’re gonna give me some kind of out. They don’t. Finally, I peel off my gear, every motion stiff and tight like my body already knows something bad’s coming. I hit the showers, standing under the hot spray longer than I should—like maybe if I stay here long enough, Franklin will forget he asked for me.

He won’t.

By the time I’m dressed, my hands are still a little shaky. Jeans, hoodie, jacket. I lace up my boots slower than necessary, dragging this out even though I know I’m just delaying the inevitable.

I check my phone for no reason. No missed calls. No texts.

No miracle to get me out of this.

I blow out another breath, rub the back of my neck, and push out the locker room door like a guy walking into his own funeral.

As I trudge through the echoing hallways of Miner’s Memorial Arena, each step feels heavier than the last. Virgil waves from his perch atop the new Zamboni, but I barely manage a nod in response. My mind races with every possible mistake I’ve made, not just today but throughout the season. Could this meeting be the end of my time with the Slammers? I can’t even imagine it. I’ve never played hockey without my brothers beside me.

Reaching the front office, I pause outside Franklin’s door, my hand hovering over the knob. The plaque reading ‘Franklin Baker - Team Owner’ seems to glare at me, reminding me of the gravity behind this unexpected summons. Taking a deep breath, I knock softly, almost hoping he’s changed his mind and left the office. No such luck.

“Come in, Brogan,” Franklin’s voice calls from inside, steady and sure. With a shaky breath, I push the door open and step into what feels like the lion’s den, bracing myself for what comes next.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

The office of Franklin Baker feels like a shrine to hockey, walls lined with framed jerseys and black-and-white photos of Slammers legends. The air smells faintly of leather and the old wood polish that gleams under the fluorescent lights. I enter, my heart thumping in my chest like it’s trying to escape. Franklin sits behind his massive oak desk, a fortress of paperwork and memorabilia, looking every bit the team patriarch.

“Your contract is going to be up for negotiations soon. You’re playing like shit, son. Raise your game or risk becoming unemployed.” Franklin wrinkles his brow, his voice carrying a mix of disappointment and urgency that makes me wince. “I can’t allow the Foster name to carry you indefinitely.”

He’s right. I need to up my game. The words echo in my head, a mantra that’s both a whip and a lifeline.

Britt, my agent and my friend Holden’s wife, is dressed impeccably in a sharp business suit that makes her look both formidable and out of place in this dusty hockey temple. She taps her pen on the table, drawing my gaze. “I won’t be able to do much for you if your numbers aren’t on point with what similar players are producing.”

I try to muster a smirk, an armor against the dread tightening around my ribs. “So what you’re saying is, I’m officially your problem child now. Guess your winning streak’s about to take a hit, huh?”

The joke lands with a thud, Britt’s eyebrow arching in that ‘really?’ way she has. Franklin doesn’t even crack a smile; instead, he shuffles some papers, his fingers thick and callused—hands that have worked, fought, and built this team from the ground up.

Outside, Virgil’s Zamboni hums faintly, a lullaby for the ice that I can barely hear over the storm in my mind. Am I really about to lose everything I’ve worked for? Britt’s gaze softens for a moment, and she leans forward, her voice lowering to something both stern and gentle.

“Brogan, listen. It’s not just about the numbers. It’s about showing that you care enough to fight for your place here. Prove that to Franklin, to the team, and to the fans.”

Her words are a cold splash of reality but also a beacon. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, the resolve settling in. I’m not out of the game yet, not if I have anything to say about it. Franklin watches me, his gaze measuring, then nods slowly, as if deciding something crucial about my future right there and then.

“Good,” he grunts, finally breaking the silence that had started to suffocate the room. “Now steel your spine. Next time, show us what you’ve got, Foster. This team needs you at your best.”

I stand, my legs steady despite the turmoil inside. “You’ll get it, sir. No more clowning around.” The promise feels like a vow not just to them but to myself, too.

As I leave the office, the door closing behind me with a soft click, the weight on my shoulders feels lighter yet somehow more substantial. This is my chance to turn it all around, and I won’t waste it.

The meeting with Franklin weighs on me like a bag of pucks as I head out of the arena and into the frozen throat-punch that is Sorrowville in December. I climb into my truck—old, dented, loyal as hell—and crank the ignition. It chokes twice before finally catching, rattling like it might give up on me any second. Pretty on-brand for how I’m feeling, if I’m being honest.

I sit there with my hands on the wheel, staring through the cracked windshield like maybe the answers are out there somewhere, floating in the exhaust cloud puffing out of my tailpipe. I’ve been chasing this dream my whole damn life. Not because I wanted to be great—not really. I just didn’t want to be the Foster who couldn’t carry the torch.